


Keep My Glass Full

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6315700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara hadn't even wanted to attend the party, not really. But Nina had insisted, and so now here she is, determined to have a good time... even if all she can think about is a certain Scottish Time Lord. When things take a sour turn, she realises how much she needs him to take care of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep My Glass Full

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on an actual incident that happened to me last week - figured that writing it down might help, so this fic came about. 
> 
> Title from Chandelier, by Sia.

Clara groaned, her head throbbing uncomfortably as she stood in the crowded kitchen with Nina. At least, Nina had been there a moment ago, she thought, only now she was definitely, certifiably alone. Well. Alone with twenty strangers. _That_ kind of alone. 

She hadn’t even been sure about accepting this invitation. Nina had turned up, quite spontaneously, on the doorstep of her flat two days ago, and tonight she had invited Clara to the party of a friend of a friend: a connection so tenuous that Clara had wondered whether accepting would be the prudent thing to do. But of course, Nina had begged, and promised her wine and dancing and _fun_ , and so of course she had capitulated to her friend’s demands. 

She had to admit, it had been kind of fun getting ready together for the first time in years: the familiar routines of hair and makeup and squeezing into dresses that they both knew were probably wholly inappropriate for their age. When Clara was done, she had looked into the mirror and felt a small shock as she failed to recognise the person who stared back at her. Turquoise dress, red lips, chestnut hair artistically ruffled just _so._ Nina had smiled, insisted on taking a photo, and Clara had picked up her own the phone then, remembering abruptly the promise she had made the Doctor many months before.

 

 _Going out tonight. With Nina, will be consuming alcohol. Don’t turn up again – everything will be fine._ _xx_

 

The text was short and to the point, and she considered sending the photo of herself, before realising that the Doctor probably wasn’t all that interested, and instead stashing her phone back in her bag as Nina poured herself a tall glass of wine and downed it in long, languid gulps. 

“Drink?” she had offered – _the sheer audacity of it,_ Clara thought, _of offering her her own alcohol_ – but she had declined politely, checking her phone for a response from the Doctor and feeling an irrational stab of annoyance when she noted his lack of a reply. 

“We should go,” she’d mumbled to distract herself, standing up abruptly and staggering in her heels, ignoring Nina’s titters and reaching into the fridge for a second bottle of wine to take: a peace offering, a small consolation to the hosts, an apology for the fact she barely knew them yet was invading their home. “Come on, Neen.” 

So they’d held hands as they’d stumbled down the stairs together, Nina catching her knee on the edge of a step but continuing blissfully on, unencumbered by the incident despite the graze now adorning her previously smooth leg. Piling into a cab, Nina had offered drunken directions towards what she assured the cabbie would be _the_ party of the decade, and then she’d nuzzled her head into Clara’s shoulder and smiled tipsily. “You look so pretty,” she’d murmured. “My pretty, pretty Clara.”

Clara had sighed then, and patted her friend’s cheek comfortingly, helping her out the cab at their destination and offering conciliatory cash and apologies to the driver, before ringing the doorbell of the old, unfamiliar house which seemed improbably luxurious for anyone of her age in London. As she waited for a reply, she checked her phone. No messages. She typed out a second text.

 

_Just arrived. Nina is a bit pissed but I’m ok. xx_

She hit send as the door burst open, and she had smiled uncertainly at the unfamiliar woman who answered, a girl who seemed young enough to still be one of her students, offering a weak explanation. “Hi, is this… we’re here for the party?” 

“Come on in,” the girl had grinned in response, standing aside and leading them into the warmth of the house, the thud of bass vibrating the floor a little as they entered a room full of guests Clara didn’t know, sofas crammed with people chatting and sipping drinks, people who cast curious, lingering gazes over the newcomers that stuck out so intensely.

“Nina!” exclaimed a girl Clara hadn’t previously noticed, pushing her way through a small knot of people and embracing Clara’s companion. “And this is…” 

“Clara,” Clara had informed her politely. “Nina’s… friend.” Best to not bring up any more of the past than was necessary. 

“Well, come in!” the girl had enthused, taking them both by the hand and dragging them into the kitchen, gesturing to a soup pan full of bright orange liquid. “There’s punch, and ooh, you brought wine! Lovely! Grab a drink and a seat and get comfortable.” 

Thus Clara had found herself unhappily ensconced in a corner between Nina and a group of girls – for they were just that, in her view, _girls_ – she didn’t know, and although she tried to chat politely, it was clear she did not belong. In desperation, she rose in search of the wine she had carefully chosen the day before, agonising for ten minutes in Waitrose over the choice of an appropriate drink, and upon her return, she had filled her own cup and then Nina’s, forcing herself to sip it slowly, and then topping up the glass when it was done. 

The room had spun a little when they’d collectively finished the bottle, so she’d passed her empty cup to her friend and risen in search of a bathroom. When she’d located it, she’d marvelled in the colours of the place, of the high ceilings and the opulence, and she’d rinsed her hands and checked her lipstick perfunctorily, descending back into the sticky, sweaty chaos of the party unwillingly, tugging at her dress as she went. 

Nina was sat in the embrace of a strange man, and so Clara had scowled, pursing her lips unhappily and returning to her seat, pulling out her phone and checking it just for the sake of having something to do. A hand touched her bare shoulder, and she’d started a little then, looking around and noticing the unknown man, his arm laid across the back of the sofa around Nina, apparently already so much the worse for drink that he hadn’t noticed whose shoulder his fingers were stroking absentmindedly. Clara felt her skin crawl as she cringed away from him, looking down at her maddeningly silent phone and swearing under her breath.

 

_Some creep is chatting Nina up. I’m bored and I’m lonely and this sucks. Also not had enough alcohol for this shit._

 

She’d heard a familiar voice then and her head had snapped up, taking in the sight of a friend’s ex entering the party, grinning and self-congratulatory, a pizza box held in her hands, and she’d scowled again as dislike flooded through her. Her inhibitions were sufficiently lowered that she felt able to lean across to Nina and murmur in her ear the identity of the familiar-yet-unfamiliar girl, and then Nina had been laughing a little and pulling away, back towards the unknown man, and Clara had got to her feet in irritation, swaying slightly as the blood rushed to her head.

“Clara!” Nina had protested, leaping up, seizing her hand and following her friend into the kitchen, their hands entwined, and somehow it seemed all the more crowded in here, too many bodies, too much alcohol, but Clara still found the bottle of wine and poured herself a glass – a mocking term, she thought, as she considered the plastic cup in her hand – before gulping at it urgently. The friend’s ex was encroaching into her space, and she could feel her tongue loosening, and even though Nina was looking at her warningly, she felt the words leave her lips before she could check them, as her hand reached out towards the ex and tugged her over insistently: “You’re Jess’s ex. She says you’re loud in bed.” 

The girl had laughed then, and Clara had reached behind her for her drink, using it as a prop to conceal her embarrassment at her own words, and oh _god,_ why was the room so packed? They’d bantered, that much she knew, and she’d needed the bathroom, and so she’d tugged on Nina’s arm and imparted instructions to mind her drink, and the next thing she knew, she was alone in the cavernous and blessedly cool bathroom, leaning against the sink and trying to bring the world into focus.

 

_I’m reallu pissef I thin but I k_

She managed to type the message while she peed, sending it distractedly as she washed her hands and returned to the kitchen, looking around for Nina, snatching up and taking a sip of her drink as she did so. 

“Neen?” she asked blearily, and the friend’s ex had only grinned at her maddeningly, apparently unconcerned. 

“She’s not feeling so hot. She’s upstairs.” 

“TAKE ME TO HER.” Clara had demanded, her voice embarrassingly loud over the thumping music, and so the girl had led her by the hand upstairs, just as Nina stumbled out of the bathroom and into Clara’s waiting arms. 

“Shit,” she’d mumbled, and Clara’s heart had stopped momentarily as she assessed her friend for any harm to her. “Clara?” 

“Nina, it’s OK…” her head was spinning uncomfortably, why was her head spinning? “We can go home…”

“You can’t take her home like this,” came a male voice, and it was Nina’s friend, the one Clara barely knew, and he looked so concerned, but Clara _knew,_ she _remembered_ , she knew that she shouldn’t trust strange men. “She can stay here.” 

“ _No_ ,” she’d protested loudly, more loudly than she’d intended. “S’not far, I can take her… I can get her…” Oh god, why was everything so sideways? She clung to the newel post on the stairs, trying to right her vision. “I can get her _home_.”

“Don’t be stupid,” the guy – she couldn’t quite recall his name, Sam or Simon or something similar – had insisted firmly. “She can sleep in my room, you both can.” 

Oh, he seemed so kind, and somehow she was downstairs, although she didn’t recall getting there, and Nina was lying on a mattress of the floor of a perfectly well kept bedroom, weeping silently and clinging to Clara’s hand, and it was then that Clara realised perhaps that all was not entirely well. 

“What can I get her?” he’d asked, and her head was so fuzzy, but she remembered – dimly, she remembered – that coffee was good for this sort of thing, and so she’d imperiously all but shouted her request. 

He’d disappeared then, and Nina was still crying, her head in Clara’s lap, as the room lurched uncomfortably and she’d fallen to lie beside her friend, groaning quietly. 

“Don’t feel good,” she’d mumbled as Sam – Simon? Steve? – returned, and she vaguely noted mugs in his hand before the dim light of the bedroom became unbearable and her stomach clenched and she knew, she knew with damning clarity what was going to happen, and cried a warning. “Feel sick…” she managed, and something about her facial expression must have been enough to convince them, because then there was a bag in front of her, and oh _god,_ she was being sick, she was in a stranger’s bedroom and her friend was crying, and she was being sick. 

Something was wrong, that much she knew, as tears tracked down her cheeks and her stomach contracted painfully with each wave of nausea, Clara heaving painfully time and time again as shivers began to overwhelm her and firm, insistent hands were guiding her into a bed that she dimly knew wasn’t her own. Her teeth chattered and she clutched the duvet around her as she was sick – neatly, that much cut through her consciousness – into a plastic bag, her words slurred as she mumbled the same thing over and over. “Want Doctor…” she muttered, wiping her eyes furiously, no longer caring about preserving her makeup. “Want… tell the Doctor… m’ok… please… Doctor…” 

“What doctor?” Nina asked, and Clara felt a small stab of bitterness at her friend’s remarkable recovery, at her infuriating, sudden sobriety. “Your doctor’s will be closed, honey… you just gotta get this out of your system…”

“Phone…” Clara groaned, reaching for where she thought she’d left it and nearly falling out of bed, watching as Nina put the phone on the bedside table. “Tell… him…”

“Yes, babe, I’ll tell them, it’s OK…” Nina sat beside her and stroked her hair, neatly slipping Clara’s large, hoop earrings out and laying them beside the bed. “Just sleep…”

Clara’s only response was to lean over the bag beside the bed and be sick again, and again, until her stomach muscles screamed in protest, a chill penetrating to her very core, and when she finally fell back against the pillows and into a deep, dreamless sleep, her last coherent thought was of the Doctor.

 

~/~/~/~

 

Clara awoke with a start the next morning, wondering momentarily where she was as she took in the vile, acidic taste in her mouth and – oh _shit. Oh shit._ There was someone snoring beside her. Someone definitely male snoring next to her. Where the _fuck_ was sh- oh.

The party swirled in her brain, the throwing up, the drunk demands for the Doctor, and… surely that couldn’t be… 

She turned her head fractionally and took in the unfamiliar dark hair and beard, realising with a start that it was Sam, that this was his bedroom, and that she was, mercifully, fully clothed. She groaned a little, noticing that his weight was pushing her out of the bed, and she sat up a fraction, carefully and slowly reaching for her phone as she looked around for Nina. Nothing. She sighed and looked at the – mercifully still intact and charged – screen.

 

_Three new voicemail messages from The Doctor._

 

She groaned softly and raised the phone to her ear, the crackling voice assailing her brain.

_Clara? Are you alright? You don’t seem very coherent and I’m worried about you, have you drunk too much again? You haven’t been doing those shot things, have you? Call me back._

_  
Clara? I’m worried now, you haven’t phoned me back and you haven’t texted me in a while, which might be for the best actually, your grasp of spelling and grammar is rather lacking when you’re inebriated. Can you just call the TARDIS?_

_Clara, I’m hoping that you’re asleep. Call me when you wake up._

 

She closed her eyes, rolling cautiously out of bed and sweeping up her shoes and her bag from the floor, padding on silent feet into the deserted lounge. She took a deep breath, screwing her eyes up against the sunlight that lanced in through the blinds, and then called the TARDIS. 

“Clara!” the Doctor exclaimed, relief filling his tone. “Are you alright? Where are you?” 

“I’m… I’m still at the house party,” she mumbled, her voice not working properly after all the vomiting. She cleared her throat self-consciously and tried another sentence. “I slept over.” 

“Oh.” He sounded confused by this nugget of information. “Why?” 

“I was… things… happened…”

“What kind of things?” there was a pause, and then he made a small noise of realisation, before asking in a slightly pained voice: “Human-y sex things?” 

“No, no, no…” she assured him, her voice suddenly thick with tears as the realisation of the situation dawned on her. “Someone… someone put something in my drink.”

“What sort of something?” 

“I don’t know, a pill or something,” she was becoming hysterical and she fought to keep her voice level. but she couldn’t keep the tears from spilling from her eyes. “Please-” 

“Well what sort of pill? Why would they do that?” he asked in bafflement, cutting her off, and she bit down on her lip to stop herself from screaming at him furiously, because all she wanted was to _leave_ , to be with someone who’d look after her, and that was him, and why couldn’t he just _understand_ … 

“ _I don’t know what sort of pill,_ ” she snarled, her anger surprising her. “They wanted to have sex with me, probably, but Nina looked after me, only now I don’t know where the fuck she is, so can you please just come and get me? _Please_?” 

“But…” 

“If your next question is going to be about human mating behaviours then please just know that putting things in women’s drinks is a massively, massively horrible thing to do and I feel like _shit_ so can you please just track my _bloody_ phone signal and come and get me?” 

“Fine, fine…” he muttered, then there was the muted but welcome sound of him flicking switches, and suddenly the TARDIS materialised neatly around her, the blessed dark of the console room providing welcome relief to her aching head. “Good, eh? Pinpoint materialisation.” 

“Mm,” she mumbled uncertainly, taking half a step towards him and stumbling over her own feet, but his arms were around her, he was holding her up and she was safe and she was OK, and the relief of it all brought on fresh tears. “Oh god…” 

“Clara,” he said softly, picking her up with ease and carrying her carefully to the TARDIS medical bay before she could protest, looking down at her with a worried expression as she lay passively in his arms, her eyes closed against the brightness of the corridors. “You’re safe, it’s alright.”

“Doctor…” she began, and he shushed her and smoothed her hair back from her face gently, reaching into his pocket with his free hand and taking out the sonic screwdriver, scanning her carefully and then furrowing his brow a little at the readings. 

“Who did this?” he asked her softly, unable to keep the fury from his voice as he realised that someone, some _bastard_ had done this to Clara, that they had wanted to do unspeakable things to her. “Who did this to you?” 

“Don’t know,” she murmured, her voice shaking. “Someone random, I don’t know...” 

“Clara, my Clara,” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking. “It’s ok, it’s in your system still, but I can… I can help with that, I promise, do you trust me?” 

“Mm,” she managed quietly. “Yeah, course.” 

Reaching down, he gently placed his palms on her temples, and a moment later she was deeply, blissfully asleep, and he hooked her carefully up to an IV drip, dimming the lights and pressing a single feather-light kiss to her forehead before racing back to the console room and typing in a set of coordinates.

 

~/~/~/~

 

No one could ever work out how or why Jake Wiseman came to find himself, the morning after the house party, tied securely to the top of Nelson’s Column. When the story got back to Clara, via Nina, she’d narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the Doctor and asked him what he knew, and he’d pushed his sunglasses further up his nose and denied any culpability, turning away from her to hide a small, triumphant grin. 

Jake would never admit to the reason for his humiliation – for that would involve admitting to what he had done – and so he would shrug and laugh and pass it off as banter between friends. But for years to come, Jake would vividly remember an angry Scottish voice whispering in his ear menacingly, the words “a duty of care,” and threats about the wellbeing of Clara Oswald burned into his memory. 

Whenever he met a pretty girl in a bar, he remembered the mysterious man, and his furious words, and he’d make his excuses and leave. No one would ever understand why.

No one except one Time Lord with a very, very long memory.


End file.
